fabulas fundatoris
by Marvelgeek42
Summary: Imagine none of the Hogwarts Founders were actually British in any sense. Wouldn't that be fun? [Collection of oneshots]
1. nos felix quod hox fecit

**For QLFC, Puddlemere, Beater #2 [Pterodactyl: Write a story that takes place in the sky or somewhere that houses broom equipment (such as Quality Quidditch Supplies, the Quidditch pitch, Battle of the Seven Potters, etc.) Optional: (word) ancient, (word) proof, (colour) light grey]**

 **Word Count without A/N: 1,235**

 **A few clarifications:**

 **First, Huritt is Godric. His name got mangled over time in my personal headcanon. Similary, Helga Authulfsdottierbecame Hufflepuff over time. The English language is a mess, this is more than believeable to have happened.**

 **Secondly, I think I did a decent job with the research into Mi'kamq/L'nu'k society, but improvent is always possible. I did my best, but I in no way claim that everything is historically accurate. The vikings were definitely in the region the Mi'kamq/L'nu'k were at the time, or at least close enough to strech this.**

 **Lastly, the translations for the Agolquian and the Icelandic (which to my knowledge, is the closest modern language to old Norse) should be at the bottom. I did my best with them, should you know better, please inform me of how to correct it.**

* * *

 _ **nos felix quod hoc fecit**_

* * *

Huritt is not someone who will stand back in fear, no, far from it. He is the one to challenge the saqmaw of his tribe, a cruel man by the name of Tihkoosue whose name adequately sums up his lack of morals, when he started to threaten them with magic. It is _him_ , who decides to stand up and say _no more_.

It doesn't even matter that he lost, in the end. It doesn't matter that his obvious proof of Tihkoosue's wrongdoing is treated as inferior to the saqmaw's power. What does it matter, being ostracised, being lectured by the very man he had fought against, when it only gave him more reasons to leave? Why would he want to stay, when his tribe is suffering from a saqmaw who either cannot or will not perform his tasks, such as redistributing wealth properly?

Most in his situation would have left for a few weeks, maybe some months, at most a year. Huritt, however, is a man who commits. He gathers a few things, puts them in his bag, transforms into his falcon form. It is his spirit animal — and transforming an ancient practice — and in this form, he grabs the bag and flies away.

A falcon is a great thing to be; Huritt delights in it. His eyes can perceive so many more colors in this form, even if some of it has carried over to his human form. It is a great privilege as a hunter and fisherman. It means he can take care of his own, and his abilities as puoin only add to that.

He flies. Higher, ever so slightly higher, letting Glooscap lead him to safety. It is a wonderful feeling, to simply let the winds lead you, to see all the creations of Khimintu from above.

And then he hears a cry of pain.

Huritt is a puoin, a sorcerer, and he has to say that he prefers healing over injuring by a significant margin, so he reacts immediately.

He flies a circle, his eyes searching the ground below him for the origin of the cry. It doesn't matter if it is a L'nu'k or not that is in pain. He is on his own now; he has to rely on no one's judgement but his own.

He breaks his circle as he finds the origin of the continued cry. Within a few seconds, that very person becomes visible behind a tree.

There is a man lying on the ground, clutching his somewhat torn right arm with his left, while a woman with multiple braids among her still mostly loose hair is fending off a Black Bear with a spear in her right hand. It is decorated in a way that is completely unfamiliar to Huritt. Their clothing — it is mostly the green of the forest, the brown of the currently unfrozen ground, and light shades of gray — is woven, cut, and dyed in a way he has never seen before, just as their skin seems oddly pale.

Deciding to bother with those things later, Huritt dives down, swiftly turning back into his human form shortly before he hits the ground, picking his bag up and hanging it around his shoulder as he does.

The woman — who seems to have the bear situation under control — shouts a few sentences that tell Huritt absolutely nothing. The language is another thing he isn't familiar with, it turns out. Hers comes more out of the throat than his.

He scrambles his brain for a way to signal that he's here to help, as his sudden appearance causes the woman to hectically look between him at the bear, as if trying to figure out who to take out first.

"Nidijinikaz Huritt," he speaks, indicating himself. "Wìdòkàzowin oma." He lowered his head and motioned to the man on the ground. He looks similar enough that the two of them cannot be anything but family.

The woman frowns at his words, before a look of understanding passes on her face. "Mitt nafn er Helga. Helga Authulfdottir. Þetta er bróðir minn, Hjort. Ég vona að þú hefur ekki huga að því að gera þetta," she says, as the bear decides to retreat. She kneels and writes something in the ground. "Can you understand me now?"

"Yes, I can!" Huritt exclaims in surprise. "How do you manage this?"

"It's a spell," she replies. "A temporary one, I admit."

"I know that much," Huritt answers, before shaking his head. "I should focus on healing… Hjiot?" Going by the wince of the man, Huritt has either gotten the name wrong in some fashion or at the very least mispronounced it. Or maybe he is simply wincing because of the pain. That is also a possibility.

"If the two of you are fine with it, that is," Huritt adds after a moment.

"Yes," is the first word Huritt hears the other man speak. And he has to say, that man has a very nice voice.

Looking properly at the man for the first time since his arrival, he notices that the man in general looks very nice. It is then that Helga repeats his name. Hjort. How is he supposed to pronounce this?

Huritts should probably stop falling in love so quick, he notes as he gets to work. It's not a difficult wound; the loss is probably the worst thing about it. That, combined with Huritt's experience and his well stocked collection of herbs, means that he's done within a minute or two, during which he listens to the siblings mock each other.

Helga literally disappears for a moment — where have these people learned such things? — and returns from the sky. She is in a strange contraption pulled by cats of all things.

Which okay, sure, why not. These strange people have surprised him enough, they might as well continue to do so.

"Will you be joining us, Hurick?" Hjort asks hopefully as his sister lands in front of them.

He can't tell if it is a deliberate mispronunciation, but Huritt figures that since he has not managed to get the hang of Hjort's name, he shouldn't demand such from the other man.

It's only after he decides that that he realizes that there had been a question asked and both siblings are looking at him, clearly awaiting an answer.

Should he join them? On the one hand, they're not L'nu'k. They're strangers, from no tribe Huritt has ever heard of. How is he to know what to expect?

On the other hand, exactly that. It will be new and exciting. Plus, that would really be committing to his banishment, wouldn't it?

Not to forget that Hjort is more than good looking. That is honestly one of the main arguments.

"Yes, I will," he replies, climbing onto the flying chariot with the siblings. They leave the ground a mere second after.

"Aren't I lucky that you happened to fly here today," Hjort says softly as the three of them fly through the sky. He is doing his best to look at his eyes as he does so.

"I would say so," Huritt replies. "For one thing, I'd never have met you. Based on what I gather, Helga not exactly good at healing."

Hjort chuckles. "She's a bit more than not good."

"I can throw you from the chariot anytime," Helga reminds them.

* * *

 **saqmaw - a chief, chosen by prestige**

 **puoin - a soceror**

 **L'nu'k - means something like 'human'. What the Mi'kamq called themselves pre-Europeans**

 **Glooscap and Khimintu - gods. The former of the L'nu'k people, the latter of creation.**

 **Nidijinikaz Huritt - My name is Huritt**

 **Wìdòkàzowin oma - I'm here to help**

 **Mitt nafn er Helga. - My name is Helga.**

 **Þetta er bróðir minn, Hjort. - This is my brother, Hjort.**

 **Ég vona að þú hefur ekki huga að því að gera þetta - I hope you don't mind me doing this**


	2. receptum imperatoriae

**For QL, Puddlemere, CAPTAIN: Write about a character talking their way out of a situation**

 **For Hogwarts, Games Development, Task 6: Write about a criminal**

 **Word Count: 1,044**

 **I think I managed to portray the cultures somewhat accurately, but I'm speaking as a white European here. Should you know better, please tell me if I got something completely wrong.**

 **Rafeedah is the person we know as Rowena Ravenclaw.**

* * *

 _receptum imperatoriae_

* * *

Shalvar Char is well aware that as the son of an administrative officer, he has no actual reason to spend his days at the harbor, watching the Arabian trades and the products they bring from faraway lands. They tell tales of faraway lands with more differences than they care to name. He can tell by their appearance and style of dress that the people are different

He knows that his father does not approve of his habits, but it's not like Shalvar is intent on inheriting his father's position. No, he will gladly leave this to whichever one of his brothers it is that proves himself capable enough.

Shalvar has different interests. His interests lie in the world, its people, and the connections between them; his passions lie in the creation of potions and integrating magic into whatever he could.

The latter is done far from the eyes of the traders who believe magic to be the work of an evil being they call Iblis — or the devil, if they are one of the people from the Eastern Roman Empire — unless the person performing it is devout to their god — apparently they only had one.

Once, he had very nearly been caught. In fact, he had been spotted in the act of talking to his familiar in the language of the snakes, but Shalvar knows how to phrase things in a way that the results end up beneficial for him. And such a conversation with Indra, a six-foot-long common krait becomes him muttering a prayer under his breath.

The fact that the man who had caught him did not speak any of the local languages most certainly did not harm in convincing him.

Perhaps the best example of this ability is the events that take place after he meets Rafeedah. The young woman is a year or two older than Shalvar is himself — at fifteen he is almost at the age of marriage for a male Brahim such as him — and she covers her hair, not unlike the way some of the women from the far north do. She calls the garment a hijab when he asks her, and she explains that the captain of the ship is her husband, who had refused to leave her behind for such a long journey so quickly after their union.

With her husband Salim's permission, the two of them leave for a walk around the town while the man himself finishes — joined by her brother, Ali, of course. They discuss differences between their lands and cultures, from the lack of a bindi signifying her marriage to the fact that the Rashtrakuta Empire is apparently so much greener than the lands Rafeedah had been born in that she can barely believe it is real.

"It's mostly sand unless you are right beside a river or the coast," she explains in her native tongue, though the conversation as a whole switches between Arabic and the Tamil that Shalvar had been taught as a young boy.

It's a pleasant walk, right up until the sun reaches its highest point. Shalvar is engrossed in Rafeedah's description of the Bagdad House of Wisdom, and is completely stunned when Ali pushes him aside and takes a course at the very place Shalvar would have been. Ali falls to his knees, seemingly in pain.

Shalvar's back is turned to the attacker, but Rafeedah moves fast. In the time it has taken Shalvar to turn around, she has pulled out a stick — he recognizes it as a wand based on the rare visiting magician he manages to have a conversation with — and pushed the attacker backward into a wall. It does not look like the man will get up again.

"What just happened? Why did he attack you?" Rafeedah asks as her brother gets back on his feet.

"I don't know," Shalvar replies, looking at the man who had attacked them. "Perhaps he opposes one of my father's policies very strongly? It is the most logical reason I can currently think of."

"That's no reason to attack someone on an open street," Ali argues. "Surely this can't be allowed."

"We have much bigger problems," he states. Then he swallows. "This man was a Brahmin."

He can see the siblings exchange a look of confusion and remember that not every place in their world lives with the caste system like they do here.

"Killing a Brahmin is considered a heinous crime," he explains.

Comprehension draws on their faces and it turns into horror right around the time the people arrive to punish Rafeedah.

Shalvar can not let that happen. He sends Ali back to the harbor to collect Salim and bring him to the court while Shalvar defends Rafeedah to the best of his ability.

The usual sentence for the killing of a Brahim is nothing short of death, but by the careful repetition of the fact that Rafeedah had been saving him — and perhaps a tiny bit of both magic and money accompanying his word to make them more compelling — he manages to convince the court to change the sentence to exile of not just Rafeedah herself, but her husband's business and Shalvar himself as well. They are to leave within the day.

Salim, who looks at his wife with honest love in his eyes, stops Shalvar as soon as the proceedings are over.

"Thank you," he says at least twelve times before he continues, "Thank you so much. My trade is not nearly as important as my wife. It pains me to hear that you will have to leave as well. If you want, you can join me on my ship on my way home, free of charge. There's no way I can ever come close to repaying you for saving my wife's life."

"She saved mine as well," Shalvar reminds him. "It is only right. That said, I will gladly accept your offer." It is certainly the most convenient option available to him. "I'm incredibly curious to see this place you've described. That house of wisdom, in particular, sounds interesting," he adds.

"I'd be glad to show you around in all the sections, including the hidden magical ones," Rafeedah replies with a grin.


End file.
